


The Mighty Fall || Through The Fire

by reveneration



Series: The Mighty Fall [1]
Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Zexal
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-11-22
Packaged: 2017-12-29 22:00:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reveneration/pseuds/reveneration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a land divided among Kings of new and old, a new power has emerged from the mountains in the wake of a terrible tragedy. A surviving dragon, Mizael, from a great purge of his kind enters Durbe's kingdom with the intent to get revenge against the wrong man, but soon learns of the complex politics that may lead to the answers he seeks. Their paths cross with Nasch, a noble King and a close friend of Durbe's; Princes Kaito and Chris from lands further away, and dark magic users gathering under the noses of Kings and Lords to begin a new era of their own - one where magic is used to destroy and monarchs are overthrown in favour of sorcerers and corrupted Kings.<br/>Mizael and Durbe must learn to understand one another and fight the evil that threatens their kingdoms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Fire isn’t something a dragon has to fear.   
Yet the bleeding sunset casts shadows over the ashes and sets the mountains on fire, exposing a deep scar in the land where his kind - his brothers - lay broken and mangled. Mizael steps off the low ledge of the cave and watches the tall grass (now flecked with blood) ripple in waves down the protective slopes. His entire clan is gone, their eggs smashed or stolen by a man in a red cape and his army on grotesque winged horses. Trampled ground and broken bones it’s all…  
  
Mizael lifts a hand to his face to touch the deep wounds over his cheeks. Rage builds inside him, burning with a white hot fire that feels all-consuming and incapable of escape. Armies are marching and training some distance away. It fuels him… it spurs him and he….!

  
When dragons fly, it’s like watching stars fall.  
But most stars that fall don’t _consume_ and _destroy_ all that’s around them.


	2. One || Durbe

“Get up.”

Durbe squints against the glaring sunlight filtering into his room and pulls the covers up higher over his face. “It isn’t time to rise, leave me be.” It was typical of Vector to drag him out of bed at dawn for god knows what (and what was it was going to be this time?). He gasps in surprise when the sheets are pulled off, and he sits up to make sure his sleeping robes are still in place. “Vector!”

“Look outside. The mountains are burning.”

Durbe frowns at that and stands to hurry to the window, grabbing for his glasses and pulling the thick curtain back to watch the orange flicker of the horizon over the mountains. How strange… usually the fires weren’t until the summer when the sun set the tall grass on fire. Something is off about how it smoulders and blurs the sunlight at the peaks.  
His eyes narrow slightly and he drops his arm to let the curtain fall back. “I wouldn’t be concerned with it,” he says despite the strange pitt of unease in his stomach. “Now may I ask what else brings you rushing into my room like a child?”

Vector crosses his arms and lifts his chin. “That’s no way to speak to your brother.” He glances toward the door and frowns. “Father isn’t recovering. I suppose you know that already.” The brothers face one another and Durbe finds himself studying Vector - from the freckles over his nose to the blazing ginger hair that burns as bright as the flames beyond the window - a trait from whatever woman had given birth to him.   
Secrets. Since the first day of his life Vector had been a shameful secret thrust into the kingdom with the term ‘bastard’ nailed over his head. Though even if their blood was divided, in times like these when they were facing the death of their father, Durbe only saw his best friend and brother before him looking pained.

“You are a Barian,” says Durbe quietly, squeeze Vector’s shoulder. “You will sit in my court, and you will take the throne should I ever fail to rule. You are still a prince.”

Vector only shuts his eyes and sighs. “I suppose so. Regardless of what happens, you have to be ready to take the throne in full. You’ve been standing in well for Father… I fear it may be permanent.” Vector returns the pat on the shoulder and nods toward the dressing room.   
“Your battlemaster sent word that one of our scouting troops has returned from battle. He’ll be here shortly with the report and list of names of the dead. You’re expected at court to address the matter.”

Durbe rings for his handmaid and rolls his eyes in Vector’s direction. “I’ll be there shortly.”

“Don’t pamper yourself for too long, _my future king_!”

“Oh, you be quiet.”

The silence that follows while Durbe dresses gives him pause to think. Mountains burning… his father dying and now signs of war? Things were so much simpler when he was still a boy playing in the stables with Vector and brushing the horses; stealing food from the kitchens and eating it behind the closed doors of the tall towers, hiding from their handmaids and teasing the guard. Things were simple when his clothes were silk tunics not lavish robes of silver and scarlet - when he was young and all of this was nothing more than a distant future of ‘some day, my dear son’.  
Here was was now, however, striding through the long halls with advisors at his flank pushing scrolls and other sorts of documents into his hands for reviewing and signing. Durbe takes each one with great care and patience, trying to be as noble a ruler as his father.

_This is my task. I will raise this kingdom high into the heavens as my father always wanted._

“Battlemaster, how are the men?” Durbe turns his head toward Alit when he hurries down the hall from the opposite direction.

“We’ve lost about fifty men, I’m going to have to review the records tonight to inform the families. It wasn’t an army we encountered… not exactly. It was sudden and Gilag said there was barely time to react.” Alit scowls down at the scribbled parchment and only looks up when Vector approaches.   
“Did you speak to Gilag again?”

“He’s discussing matters with the other men.” Vector escorts them into the main hall where the lords have gathered near the throne as the guard opens the main door.  ”He mentioned something about a single man attacking them. Probably from the shock, I doubt -”

“My Prince, we have taken a prisoner!”

Durbe raises his fingers toward Vector and sighs. “We’ll speak later of the these matters. I have this to attend to.” Durbe takes a seat on his throne, smoothing his hands over the front of his robes and letting out a low sigh. He doesn’t care for prisoners of war, preferring to leave matters of battle to Alit to deal with. Politically, prisoners meant little unless they were royalty, something of which Durbe had dealt with back when he was still shadowing his father. These strange circumstances were perhaps a means for the reason of the attack but even so, Gilag never took prisoners, as his father would never have given the order to do so. There must be a good reason.  
(Everything is a reason. A reason for this a reason for that -)  
The circle of guards breaks apart and it’s with a surprised gasp that Durbe sees them haul a nearly nude, bloody man before him, broken arrows still stuck in his skin and mud hardened in his hair. He’s bruised and looks dead sprawled out so limply on the floor as they drop him.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demands. “How dare you bring this man before me in a state like this!”

“My Prince, he is not a man. He killed nearly thirty of our men with his own hands.” The knight at the prisoner’s side takes his blade out and uses it to nudge one of his hands into view, to which Durbe holds his breath. His hands are bloody… and they are clawed, nails at least an inch long and curved slightly at their tips. These are hands that have killed in ways more brutal that Durbe felt the need to recollect..  
“A monster, My Prince. He should be brought to the slaughter.”

“Are you giving me an order?”

A hush falls over the court and the knight lowers his head. “No, My Prince. I apologize. I only meant that -”

“You mean to imprison him and execute him and you _assume_ I will agree. Go. All of you. I want him brought to the healer and given some proper clothes. I will -” Durbe holds up a hand and stops his speech, pausing when a small sound escapes the man on the floor. It’s barely a sigh, but it’s a sign he’s alive. “Speak again,” he orders.

“...Fire.”

_Fire._  
Durbe’s eyes flick toward the fireplace off to the side, the place where he seems to be staring, and he stands to hurry down the steps of the throne and inspect him, laying still on the floor with his nails curling and uncurling slowly over the stone. Durbe’s eyes scan over the deep wounds. Arrows are imbedded in some, broken tips in others. There are cuts and bruises and parts of skin covered only in blood and mud and yet not a single burn, he notes. Fire… He was not in contact with fire at all. It wasn’t possible. He couldn’t be speaking of his injuries.  
“Alit. Was this battle near the mountains?”

“No, My Prince. There was no mention of fire in Gilag’s report, either. He’s been muttering ‘fire’ since we arrested him.” Alit’s brow furrows and he glances toward the fireplace while the prisoner inches ever closer.

“Fire.”  
He reaches forward, sliding on one elbow and moving toward it. The guards step back, swords out and bodies poised to attack. Durbe lifts his hand and stands back to watch him crawl forward on his arms, making no sound other than a low hiss in the back of his throat with each lurching movement forward. Like a beggar his hand extends and to Durbe’s shock he thrusts it into the flames.  
He’s mad! He must be -

The wounds over his skin begin to heal. The metal heads of arrows and splinters push out and fall with small plinks. He stands, the muscles of his back tightening and rippling with a strength Durbe knows exceeds any of the knights standing in his court (even Alit, and that’s certainly a statement he doesn’t make lightly). His hands flex, claws angled and sharp, knuckles cracking and hands held ready to strike. Scales down his spine lead to a tail of the same colour, a pearl-like white that seems to catch the light with different colours. His hands, his feet… even spots of his sides and face are the same and it’s in that moment that Durbe sees more of a myth than he does a man. What he sees before him, with his tattered rags barely preserving his modesty, is a creature that Durbe has only believed to exist in tales spun by his handmaids.

“What are you?”

He turns slowly on his heel to face Durbe. His eyes open and his pupils expand briefly before narrowing to thin slivers. His lips curve and he speaks in a rasp.  
“ _Darangan._ ”

Silence falls over the court again. It’s a language dead to the court, spoken only by some mages and sorcerers - known among the temples in feared whispers of the demons that descended from the skies in hoards of smoke and flames.  
Creatures that could smell death in the air.   
Yet Durbe can only feel a deep sense of calm and awe as he stares back levelly at the stranger.

“And your name, Dragon?”  
Durbe swallows the thick lump in his throat and smiles tightly, ignoring the nervous ripple that moves through the court at the word. It’s a terrifying notion to have this… beast (man?) standing before them. There is obvious fear. After all, he should be nothing more than a legend - a myth told to children to give them something to fear when walking alone in the fields..

The man bows his head and moves down to one knee. He places one hand on the floor and it’s then that Durbe notices the jewelled cuff around his right wrist, set with a lapis lazuli, a binding stone crafted by mages of the kingdom. A prisoner, indeed.  
His shoulders are tense, and his jaw is set. Anger pours off of him in waves that Durbe can almost feel as if they burned him down to his bones. The overwhelming amount of fury in a single bow stuns him to near silence until he finds a few words to piece together.

“Your name,” Durbe repeats.

“Mizael.”

 

\---

 

Mizael knows no other words in Durbe's language other than 'fire', it seems. To questions of yes or no he answers with ' _sen_ ' and ' _ni_ ', usually making motions with his hands when Durbe tries to encourage it (Though more often than not Mizael flat out ignores him beyond his short answers which he's not sure if he understands). Durbe sits with his handmaids and watches as they clean him in the iron tub. He scratches and squirms and splashes around, crawling out of the tub several times and shaking himself off while he races behind the room divider stark naked and hissing at the women who approach him.  
It’s childish to watch, and yet Durbe finds the whole scene surreal. A dragon in his court. A dragon willingly entering and remaining in his court, bound with a lapis.

A mark from his father, maybe? The mages? But if so which ones…  
Something is off about his capture. No one seems to know where the lapis is from or who the maker is.  
 _I’ll summon for one of the mages. Perhaps to remove it. Is that wise?_

Durbe scowls at his own conflicted thoughts while sorting through the pile of robes brought to him for his… guest.

“This isn't the day I expected,” he mutters to himself while pushing his glasses up his bridge of his nose. It really isn’t. Burning mountains... and now a dragon.  
Durbe himself wonders how he can be so calm. That is, until it occurs to him that he's afraid of what Mizael can do. He'd killed half a scounting legion with nothing more than his hands, wasn't that something to fear?  
 _I can't show my people. I need them to be calm._

"These will do. I’ll handle this from here.”

The guard at his side frowns. “My Prince… Is that wise? I would advise you to keep a guard between yourself and that thing -”

“We don’t know what to expect of him. He is not a thing he is a… he is a man. A dragon. Our legends teach us to respect our fellow man and the powers above us. I would take a lesson from that and respect your higher authority.” Durbe fixes him with a hard stare and with a nod he and the other men exit the dressing chambers. He turns to face the connecting door that leads to him lounging chamber in which Mizael has been brought to and it’s only then that the nervousness sinks in.

His hands tremble. His mouth is dry.  
There’s the sound of footsteps pacing… and then nothing. It’s quiet beyond the decorated wood.

Durbe takes two deep breaths to clear his head and steps forward, opening the door and coming face to face with the sight of the naked Mizael perched across in one of the chairs, back to the corner and legs neatly tucked under his rear as if ready to spring. His claws hands rest on the fabric, digging it and flexing with quiet rips of the cushion, the position barely preserving any proper coverage to preserve modesty.   
( _I don’t suppose dragons are used to clothing…_ )  
Now that Durbe can take in the markings on his skin in full he takes quiet note of everything. The red scales on his cheeks and his forehead that are much more brilliant than the opal scales elsewhere. They flare and create bursts of colour down his sides and his legs and even on his tail. Durbe knows nothing of dragons but he figures Mizael must be majestic among his breeding.

When their eyes meet, however, the hairs on the back of Durbe’s neck stand up. His gaze is predatory, calculating, and full of a rage Durbe can’t understand. How much anger could possibly exist inside him?

“I’ve brought you clothes.” Durbe nods to his arms and opens up the tunic to show him. “You must dress.”

The response is a series of hisses and throaty sounds that Durbe can’t understand. Fantastic. _What a wonderful start to things_. Durbe takes a step closer to try and better show his actions, but there’s barely a second before he’s flat on his back, Mizael pinning him down with his long nails wrapped tightly over Durbe’s wrists and legs pinning his hips. He means to yell for his guard in alarm and stops when his words are swallowed by the dragon’s mouth against his own.  
One second. Two. _Three_!

Durbe prepares to push back but as he moves forward, Mizael backs up and wipes his mouth off with the back of his hand.

“What are -?”

“I will not wear your rags,” he spits. “Rise like a king and address me as the ruler of these lands - why did you kill my people?” Mizael glares over his shoulder, nostrils flared and pupils dilated. “Have I stolen your tongue with my magic or are you simply so dumb you cannot give me a trustworthy answer, corrupted earthwalker? Mouth-breathing, ill minded, disgusting, _foul creature of_ -”

“You will stay your tongue!”

The fire cracks. Mizael growls.

“You will dress, and we will talk as men.” Durbe stands, hand braced on the table while he positions himself close to the door nearest to the hall. “We can be civil. Even if your approach is to kiss me.” Durbe aims for a light joke to ease the tension. A joke of customs?  
It fails.

“Kissing? You believe that to be an act of affection? I needed to speak your barbaric language, do not act as if I am attempting some sort of filthy ritual. Mouth to mouth contact allowed my magic to access your language. I loathe to think of what parasites are crawling over your lips.”

“You were much more charming in the main hall.”

“You will much more useful when you are _dead._ Now remove this bind immediately,” he snaps while extending his arm with the lapis. “Now, earthwalker.”

“I have no magic, Mizael. I can do nothing until a mage looks at it.” Durbe places the clothes next to him on the table. “If you dress, I will have food brought to us so we may talk in private without pause. I can assure you now, I did not kill your people. Until you arrived in my court, I didn’t believe in dragons.”   
At his final words, Mizael places a hand on the clothes, brow furrowed in an expression of deep sadness. It fades quickly, though the anger lingers in the set of his lips and the way his fingers tighten over the thin fabrics.

“We have become stories then? You earthwalking apes truly have no concept of what a vast world you are missing if your eyes are so blind to the skies. To the fires. I will accept your offer, then. We will speak, though we do not speak as a man to a man.” Mizael lifts the clothing into his arms and gives it a sniff, nose wrinkling in disgust. “You degrade me with these things.” He doesn’t protest a second time and turns.  
“Return after sunset. We will speak then. You will come to me alone or I will kill you and your men.”

Durbe inhales sharply through his nose and clenches his jaw. This was a game he would have to play.  
Sunset, then.

“I will return, Mizael.”

“Be swift with your merrymaking and do not keep me waiting long, earthwalker.” Mizael looks over his shoulder once more and he smirks. “Tonight, I will see if you truly are a King.”


	3. Two || Durbe

Durbe fixes the collar of his robes with great care to make sure there are no wrinkles. He wonders why he spends so much energy being concerned with how he presents himself. Mizael is not a being that looks to see what colours are in season or what sort of jewels he has stitched into his clothes. It's aggravating that Mizael is everything Durbe knows nothing about. He's used to having the upper hand and the advantage of having eyes and ears all over the kingdom.  
Yet when it comes to Mizael he is blind and deaf to his kind.  
Dragons aren’t things he’s ever needed to worry about. Dragons stole princesses away and swept down on villages to bring evil and fire and yet… then there’s Mizael. How could he be such a terror? Mizael holds his head with pride and talks down as if Durbe is scum but he isn't the type to cause destruction for the sake of destruction ( _is he? perhaps…_ ).  
 _Strange..._

"I suppose the legends are no more than children's stories."

Durbe is quiet, left to his own thoughts while he stands in his room, trying to work his mind around what might happen in just a few short moments. Mizael could either open his eyes or start a war… one option was at least favourable. The pressing matter of what it means to have Mizael in his court stirs him from those unsettling thoughts and he takes his maps and scrolls off the table and exits his dressing room back toward the lounge where he knows Mizael is waiting to speak to him.  
He hasn’t kept him waiting. At least he hopes not.  
Durbe addresses the guards first before he enters. “Leave us. Stay close but so not disturb us unless I call for you. See to it that the palace grounds are secure. If there’s any chance of dragons falling upon us, I want to know we’re prepared for such a thing.”  
Warm air enters his lungs in a deep inhale and through his exhale he opens the door to the lounge and steps inside with his chin raised.

Mizael looks... Durbe uses the word elegant to describe how he looks while he sits on the chair next to the fireplace, turning over a decorative glass orb in his hands and drawing his claws over the fogged glass as if it's going to answer some sort of question of the universe.

"You are two minutes early."

"How can you be sure?"

"I know when the sun sets. Our fire burns brightest when the sunlight fades," replies Mizael. His lips curl upward and he tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, profile turned toward Durbe and it's only then that he notices just how sharp Mizael's features are; how the red scales on his cheek descend far down his neck and under his borrowed robes. Now that he’s clean (and fed, judging by the bones picked clean on his plate) and not growling and spitting insults, Durbe sees just how proud a creature he is.  
“I will not bow to you, earthwalker. You have not earned the right for me to acknowledge you as an equal.” Mizael lifts his chin and does not stand.

Strange. Durbe's not used to be treated as anything less than the most important person in the room. His lips curve at the thought. How much of a brat did that paint him to be? At first he plans to sit but his knee touches the floor and he bows his head before Mizael.  
"Then let me bow to you," he murmurs. "And allow me to apologize for the loss of your brothers."

"Stand. It is unsightly to see you in such a position. A King does not bow." Mizael sets the glass orb down and drums his claws over the arm of the hair. "Someone has killed my brothers and sisters. I will destroy the earthwalkers who harmed us. I do not need your apologies, why would you say such a thing unless you carried guilt? You earthwalkers are strange beings. You wish to share in my grief despite having faced no loss. Disgusting creatures you are." Mizael shuts his eyes and neatly folds his hands in his lap, ankles crossing and lips pursed.  
“You wanted to know of my kind and what happened.”

Durbe rises from his deep bow and sits across from Mizael, hands smoothing over the front of his robes while his eyes turn downward in thought. Politics were his specialty in most cases and he would have to play the situation to his advantage while getting the information he needed. Mizael is strangely distant in the way he turns away from Durbe. It takes a long breath for Durbe to realize he’s seeing Mizael in mourning.  
“I want to know. What’s a threat to you is a threat to all of us.”

Mizael’s eyes open and he scans Durbe slowly, the slitted pupils all too foreign for Durbe to truly feel comfortable. Mizael lifts a hand to cup his cheek, leaning against it while he stares into the fire. “There is not much to speak of. My memories are not hazy, nor are they absent. Dragons do do not forget as easily as you humans do. The man who lead the armies against my kind was masked. I did not see his face… I only know he wore a red cloak with a white skull of sorts stitched on the back. Do you know of this symbol?” He tries to draw it in midair and frowns, long nails falling to his lap for a moment. “It was… a human-like skull. With a… horn? Spike?”

Durbe runs though his mental list of crests (both royal and pirate) and comes up with nothing. “Unlikely to be pirates, anyway,” he says though it’s more to himself than Mizael. “They’re too attached to the sea to try scaling mountains.”

“You speak as if you have no indication of who this might be.”

“I don’t. Someone with power… What sort of army was it?”

Mizael’s lips curl into a snarl and the fire cracks, blazing upward in the fireplace and dying down when Mizael’s eyes shut once more, as if the rage itself left him winded. “ _Corrupted._ Mages, mostly.”

 _So he knows of mages._  
“You are aware of humans and our roles, then?”

Mizael spits out a cold laugh and turns his head away from Durbe. “I have walked with your kind before. I am older than you by many cycles, earthwalker. I have watched the stars change and seas dry. I have witnessed the wars of your first kings. I know of mages and sorcerers. We have made pacts in the past.”

“Pacts?”

“Yes. Sorcerers sometimes make the request to eat a dragon stone, a stone made in the belly of an elder, smoothed and burning hot. It is an item of strong magic.” He stops and then waves a hand. “It is of no concern to you. I have questions for you now.”

“But -”

“We can discuss some matters later,” Mizael cuts in firmly. “I have questions for you now, earthwalker.”

“You can stop calling me that.”

“No.”  
Mizael stands in a fluid motion and waves his hand toward the large table in which a map of the surrounding land is painted on the finished wood. “I want you to explain your politics to me. I need to understand which of you humans is moving to cause war with my kind. Your going-ons are of some importance to me now, as I must engage among humans while in this body.”  
Mizael rests his fingers over the structures on the map, clawed fingers tracing over the edge of the castle marker that shows the position of Durbe’s palace. “What is this land called by your kind? Do not ask me the name in my tongue,” he adds when Durbe opens his mouth to speak. “You would not be able to speak it. We speak in sounds most humans cannot ever hope to understand.”

“You’re rather insistent of the stupidity of humans,” replies Durbe while standing to walk to the opposite side of the map. His fingers brush over the glossy surface and he frowns. “I understand more than you think.”

“The problem is that you think. Too much. You should stop. Humans are overthinking the simplest of things and look at you now! Look at your wars and your thrones and your affairs with…” He waves a hand in the general direction of the door. “I am certain like other kings you have your bed warmed by a bought whore dripping with palace jewels to keep her silence.”

Durbe places his palms flat on the table and leans in to level with eyes with Mizael’s and meet his angry stare. “I am sworn to remain celibate. Whatever you think you know of me, you are wrong. You’re acting like some petulant child who thinks he can talk politics but can only throw stones as far as his arm can extend so do not speak to me of the nature of my people before you can understand the one standing before you.”

Silence falls between them before MIzael draws himself up with a slow gesture of moving his wrist to move the carved white stallion on the map toward himself.

“You are the white horse. Is that not a bit vain to paint yourself a saviour?”

“My father is the sword and I am his shield. When his illness… if…” Durbe purses his lips and presses his fingers to his forehead to give pause and steady his train of thought. “When I rule as King, I will be the blade that strikes and the shield that raises to protect the innocent. There is blood on my hands and no matter how often I wash, I will die as I lived - covered in what the life of a King amounts to.”

“How many bloody footprints will you drag from the shadow of your father?”

“As many as I must to protect my kingdom. Have you never sinned?”

A smile works its way over Mizael’s face and he throws back his head to laugh, exposing the lean line of his neck which is flecked with the same opal scales as on his hands. Armour. Protection? Durbe notes that even in a human-like form Mizael is not an easy kill. When their eyes lock again, a glint has appeared in Mizael’s eyes and he steps to the other end of the table. Durbe mirrors his paces so they always remain on opposite sides, refusing to break eye contact.  
“There is no god among my kind, earthwalker. We are as close to god as you will find, having touched the heavens and burned in fires hotter than those of repentance. Your fabricated deities mean nothing to me. Sinning is what you humans call moral injustice as if it explains your actions and disregards your base morals. What pathetic beings you are to defy the invisible hand you cower under in your churches and bedsides each night.”

Durbe places his hand on the back of the white stallion and chuckles low in the back of his throat. “There you go again, talking of things you don’t understand. Do you wish to learn of the lands or are you content to insult me further?” Without waiting for an answer, Durbe traces his hand over the map and points to the first figure. “This is our land. The border is marked  here with the red line. Our land spans from the northern passage here down to the east islands. It’s mostly forest and mountains, as you know. There are four houses that report back to us and help us maintain a hold over it.” Durbe pauses and looks up at Mizael, who is bent over the table following Durbe’s hand as it moves over the painted spans of land.   
“Our kingdom is called Sargasso. I am acting as King in place of my ill father.”

“Do you have brothers? Sisters?”

“I have a half-brother. He’s a bastard and has no place on the throne under normal circumstances, but he is my most precious advisor. Should I die without an heir, he will take my place.”

“You love him.”

“He is blood and he is bonded to my very soul. That question is not relevant to our discussion.” Durbe passes his hand to the land off in the center of the body of water to the east. “This is Galeos. Nasch is their King and one of my closest friends. His lands are rich in magic and treasures. It’s a small kingdom, but powerful - undefeated on all fronts and a haven for those who seek to escape magic oppression. We trade frequently and communicate on a regular basis. Nasch would not attack the mountains. He has nothing to gain. His only interest at the moment is to unify the mages and stop the division between dark and light aligned sorcerers.”

Mizael fixes Durbe with a confused stare and Durbe frowns. “Do you know of sorcerers and their alignments?” When Mizael’s eyes narrow and he shakes his head, Durbe motions to the wall behind him where several books are lined up neatly next to the fireplace. “Those books tell of magic and the first sorcerers to come forward. Mages choose to practice magic. They use spells and wands and work with the earth to create magic. It’s limited. Mages cannot create magic from nothing, they may only use what is provided around them. For example… a mage could turn dirt into a stone and throw that stone without needing to touch it. But a sorcerer, a being who is born with magic in their blood, could use the dirt on your skin and form a stone inside your heart.”

“Sorcerers are evil, then?”

“No. Sorcerers are… perhaps that was a poor example. Magic cannot kill without a price being paid. When your debt becomes higher than your soul, you lose it. We call these things, like you do, Corrupted. They are the most vile creatures to exist but - sorcerers, I should explain better. Sorcerers do not choose magic, they are born into it and from a young age it flows through them and dictates much of their life. A mage must cast a circle and use a wand or other elements. They are bound to what the earth provides and their level of connection with the world around them. But a sorcerer needs to other source of power, they are the source themselves. Sorcerers algin light or dark, which Nasch is trying to unite.”  
Durbe pauses and Mizael taps his claws over the wood while muttering ‘light and dark’ a few times. Durbe continues.  
“Dark alignment means binding their very souls to dark magic. Dark magic is not evil in nature but in the Great War, many sorcerers became necromancers, and it was outlawed shortly thereafter. None remain to our knowledge. Dark magic falls in alignment with blood, earth, and wind. Light magic aligns to fire, water, and the spirit. They are different in that regard and sorcerers excel within those types of magic.”

Mizael nods slowly. “And Necromancers were a risk for the reason of…?”

“To play with life comes at a great cost. Magic that kills or plays with the life force or soul requires a personal payment, as I told you earlier. Stories of necromancers… cutting off limbs or devouring human flesh to vomit up the blood… it’s awful. Nightmarish. Necromancers are among the most powerful and for that reason it was banned.”

“How would you monitor such a thing? I imagine not all sorcerers live within the walls of your castle.” Mizael draws his nails over the wood but does not scratch it, his brow furrowed. “You have many types of humans. I was not aware mages and sorcerers were any different,” he admits at the tail end of a sigh. “Can you? Monitor magic, that is.”

“Yes. Seers are gifted sorcerers born with the ability to detect magic. They are a rare breed, I suppose. Many don’t live beyond childhood. Our Seer is a child but he does his job well. He monitors all magic in the kingdom.”

Mizael nods firmly. “I understand. Mages choose magic and use secondary sources to use lower level magic. Sorcerers are their own source of magic and can use unique types of magic even if it comes at a cost.”  
  
“Yes.”

“What is to the north? This land here?” Mizael taps the red stag and frowns deeply. “Red is a bad colour is it not? A colour of war?”

“Nearly. Heriter is a barren land ruled by King Byron and his two sons Christopher and Mihael.” Durbe’s fingers stop over the small black crow that rests somewhere between the red stag and the jade serpent to the west. “That’s a lie,” he relents at last, muttering to himself more than to Mizael. “Byron had a third son named Thomas. He was born a sorcerer, fathered by a man who was not Byron. He was exiled due to his sorcery and -”

“A _father_ exiled his _child_?”  
Durbe looks up and sees Mizael standing rigid with a look of horror. “No dragon would ever exile a child from their nest, how could one of blood discard another?”

“Thomas is not of Byron’s blood. He -”

“ _It does not matter_!” Mizael slams his hands down on the surface and bares his teeth, looking furious with in inhuman eyes and heat that radiates off him in angry waves. “You care for your offspring and you do not betray those who look to you to protect and defend them! A father should die for any child that calls him father and protector. A nest is only as strong as the one who builds it. If the eggs are not his own but have no warmth to bring them life then it is the duty of a man to raise them as his own and give them a chance to survive.” Mizael’s hands curl again and he glares down at the red stag in disgust.  
“Are you at war with him?” he asks after taking several deep breaths.

“No. He and Faker, the serpent here, are. It’s a blood feud that’s lasted for decades. They’re in the process of trying to settle their dispute and have been visiting at King Faker’s palace for some weeks now. I keep in contact with the Prince, Kaito, to see how things are going. I suspect he and Byron’s eldest son may wed as a means to end the feud unless Faker plans to betray him. It’s a strong possibility, which is why our armies are ready but not mobilized.” Durbe lifts his hand to the crow and picks it up with a low sigh.  
“This represents Thomas, the exiled son. He is a key factor in all this.”

“How so? A single human should mean nothing on the grander scale of war and kingdoms.”

Durbe shakes his head slowly from side to side. “Unfortunately, I have told a lie. Necromancers are not dead… Not truly. Thomas is one - one that manages to escape our eyes more than we care to admit. He’s grown very strong and he’s settled somewhere in these forests. He’s doing nothing at the moment but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be watchful.”

“Why have you not arrested him and brought him to trial, then?” Mizael examines the figure that Durbe twists between his fingers and he frowns deeply. “It seems to me as if you want him to be free.”

“I do,” murmurs Durbe thoughtfully while he sets the marker back in place. “Thomas is a valuable piece keeping Byron and Faker away from us if they go to war. Neither family offered sanctuary and his hatred toward them fuels his reason to come to us if need be. If he will side with us if the time comes, we could lead a powerful army. We would be his sanctuary."

"So he is no more than a pawn."

"You said you know of my kind and our ways. You should know that politics is no different than chess or any tabletop game of strategy. He is of more use alive than dead to me and I intend to keep it that way. Don't put my on a moral high ground, I have to act for my country and do what benefits my people."

Mizael nods slowly, though the set of his brow tells Durbe there's more he wants to say. He circles the table slowly, eyes flitting between all the markers and different islands and rivers and masses of land. "The Kings are... Yourself, to start. Your brother is Vector but does not have right to the throne, unless you pass without an heir?"

"Yes."

"This is... Nasch. Does he have siblings?"

"A sister. Mereg. She is a sorcerer and had to surrender any place on the throne to remain tied to her brother." Mizael nods at his words and continues to pace.

"Byron. Sons Christopher, Mihael, and one in exile. Thomas. He seems like a disgusting being I would take great pleasure in dropping from the high cliffs," he mutters. "Faker and his son Kaito. Any others? No siblings?"

"Not that we're aware of. I heard rumours that Faker’s late wife had birthed another son but he was said to have been stillborn. In terms of positions of power, those are the only one we’re currently involved with. Does this help you?”

Mizael leans over the map again before he draws back with a low sigh. “Somewhat. I will have to properly understand their motives with your help. Do any of them have a reason to have attacked my kind?” He folds his hands behind his back and steps toward the fireplace, head tilted downward as if the flames might gives the answers that Durbe can’t. He tries. Durbe truly tries to find a face to pin this on but who even knew that Mizael and his kind had existed (truly existed) before today?  
The urge to offer comfort and sympathy is there and yet Durbe knows he can give Mizael nothing - not truly. Not when all that Mizael needs is dry logs to set ablaze to calm whatever angry storm is brewing in his heart. Revenge was…  
Durbe’s lips twist with distaste at the notion of Mizael acting out in a fit of anger. It wasn’t an unlikely possibility and that made him more dangerous now than ever before.

“I will help you find who did this.”  
It’s reckless. He’s promising precious time to a tale he has to proof of other than what he sees before him. “But in return, I ask you swear your loyalty to this kingdom until we uncover the truth.” Durbe extends his hand toward Mizael. “As a King, I give you my word.”

“Put your gold rings away, earthwalker, I make no deals with devils in pig skins. You are only King when you sit on the decaying corpse of your father, festering in his lies and having demons in your ears. I will not shake hands with a human I cannot trust. I will not kiss your rings and let you own my word. You have severed my wings, does that not satisfy you enough?”  
Mizael sits heavily, the harsh bite of his words softened by the tired look on his face.  
“Am I permitted a place to sleep or would you like me to curl up on the rug like a hound?”

“You will be treated as guest if you bind yourself with my word to yours.” Durbe plants his feet and extends his hand again.  
“I vow to you. And you to me.”

“You sound like a romanticist, are there barkworms in your brain?”

“You are a childish lizard on two legs who needs to learn what’s at stake here.”

“I _tremble_ in your silks.”  
Mizael’s hand shoots out from its place on his lap, long nails digging into Durbe’s wrist while he pulls him closer, bringing their faces within inches of one another. “A vow, then. I will be in your debt and service until you discover who killed my kind. If it is one without your stone walls… I will kill you all, earthwalker, do you understand that?”

“I understand. And I accept.”

Mizael withdraws his hand, leaving thin ribbons of blood on Durbe’s arm which he covers with his sleeve without giving it much thought. Durbe leaves without another word and directs the guards outside to have Mizael escorted to the guest room across the hall, and that there will be three guards stationed outside at all times.  
A vow of blood and tongue - a vow made to rise or fall a kingdom or a being of ultimate power. A fantastical, unbreakable bond that would haunt Durbe to the very marrow of his bones.

 _What have I done?_   
_Will I wish to undo this in the future?_

“Will there be anything else, my Prince?”

Durbe rests his hand on the polished surface of his door handle before an idea strikes him and he turns on his heel to smile at the guard next to him. _What a brilliant thing to think at a time like this_ , he thinks while his grin spreads.  
“Yes. Fetch me Battlemaster Alit. We have much to discuss about… training.”


End file.
